


the stars are not wanted now (put out every one)

by BurningFairytales



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dead Dove: Don't Eat, Depression, F/M, Implied Anxiety, M/M, Not A Fix-It, POV Outsider, Past Character Death, Post BotFA, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningFairytales/pseuds/BurningFairytales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lobelia sees Sariadoc Brandybuck talking to him. Before she turns to leave, she catches a glimpse of Bilbo's eyes. It makes her shudder. Because she may be young, but she is still a woman, and she knows what he hides behind that pleasant smile of his. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> <br/>Or, the one where Bilbo goes home and it's Lobelia who realises he isn't the same Hobbit he used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stars are not wanted now (put out every one)

**Author's Note:**

> This has taken me entirely too long to write.  
> Basically I just enjoyed the idea that Lobelia was more than a two dimensional character, only there for comic relief and to be the stereotypical witch of a woman.  
> Also, please note that I don't actually know a whole lot about the timeline. I tried to keep it intentionally vague, but if I'm not mistaken, Lotho was actually born, what, twenty years *after* Bilbo returned?  
> So please turn a blind eye to the timeline here? It'd be greatly appreciated~

_All through an empty place I go,_  
_And find her not in any room;_  
_The candles and the lamps I light_  
_Go down before a wind of gloom._

 

They call him Mad Baggins now, the Hobbit who lives on top of Hobbiton Hill, in a smial called Bag End.

Mad Baggins who wanders his halls when you visit him, who is said to take midnight strolls around the village. Mad Baggins who speaks of things far grander than any Hobbit has ever seen, or should ever see; who has his head in the clouds and constantly seems to think of other things when you talk to him.

He was once an entirely respectable Hobbit, but that was before he left. For an inexplicably long time, Bilbo Baggins had gone from The Shire. No one quite knew where he’d run off to, or if he’d be back. There was talk that Master Baggins had gone adventuring. But surely that was just the rumour mill working overtime, because it was simply an impossible thing for a hobbit like Master Baggins to do.

Go on an adventure! Such a thing was unheard of.

So you can imagine their surprise, when, after 13 months of travelling, Bilbo turned up as quickly and unexpectedly as he’d disappeared; claiming his home before it could be put up for auction. He hid away in his smial, not socialising at all; telling all those who asked that he’d been helping a friend: some ludicrous story about a mountain, and a dragon.

The children gather around him, in wonder, to hear his tales. The adults mostly tolerate him. He is not the same Master Baggins who left the Shire. He’s quiet and withdrawn, and antisocial to a point that one might consider insulting, so they’re not entirely sure what to do with him.

The townspeople argue that he is still part Took, and Tooks have always been just a little strange. Gone adventuring, and telling tall tales. After all, his mother had a wild side, too, before she settled down.

At any rate, Mad Baggins entertains the children, and he will still invite you in for tea and scones if you catch him at the right time.

His tales are unbelievable, certainly, but they’re good enough stories. They think that, surely, his queer behaviour will not last forever.

* * *

 

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, proudly married to Otho Sackville-Baggins, will not deny that she is not overly fond of her husband’s relative. Has never been, in fact, she has always believed that Bilbo too lucky, and she’s always begrudged him for it.

(What is a married woman to do? Bilbo is living on his own in that big hobbit hole of his, not a quite a bachelor and certainly not a widower. She has a husband, and will one day have children. It should only be right that they get Bag-End.)

So, when he returns, and snatches the good silver spoons right out of her hand, only to all but slam the door in everyone’s faces, she is not happy.

The nerve of him!

She visits the house the next day (in time for elevenses, because it’s customary, and she is still cares about propriety), fully intending to make her opinion known.

He does not open the door.

She comes back the next day, and the day after that, but Bilbo does not let her in, nor has she seen him leave the house.

Days later, she sees him at the market. It makes sense, she supposes. Bilbo is still a hobbit – even if a strange one – and he needs to eat. Pointedly ignoring the whispers, she walks over to him with determined steps. Thinks about calling out to him, but in that moment, he turns away from the vegetable stall, spots her, and freezes, cabbage still in hand.

It takes all of a second, give or take, and she would have missed the way he stiffened had she not been looking for a reaction, but then Bilbo smiles at the grocer – it looks forced, but she’s too far to tell – puts the purchases into his basket and then turns to leave.

And that is just bad manners. Surely he must know better than that – Lobelia knows he saw her! So she frowns, and follows him with quick steps. She’s behind him as Bilbo turns left here and right there, but then he disappears into the crowd. Quite literally. She looks for some more time, but she can’t seem to find him; he must have slipped away.

It takes almost two months before she sees him again, which is already an immense stretch of time for any hobbit to see another, but Lobelia has given up on trying to visit; there is a line between being insistent and obstinate. She does notice, however, that the whispers and talking about him have – if not stopped, then at least turned less malignant. If what her friends say is to be believed, her cousin appears to handle his financial affairs quite generously. Lobelia, in the private of her own kitchen, scoffs.

Even hobbits, it would seem, are very quick at forgetting that someone is not like the rest of them, if their money can buy you good food and a decent amount of ale.

Reportedly, it was Primula and her husband Drogo who forgave Bilbo his oddities the quickest. And the old gaffer, Hamfast Gamgee, has always been fond of him. Lobelia is told that they often have tea together, discussing landscaping or Bilbo’s vegetable garden. She pauses.

She’d not given him much thought, but that fact might be helpful.

So, the next day, she’s standing at Bilbo’s front door, along with the old gaffer – who she’s seen after walking by Bilbo’s house. Quite by accident, of course.

Hamfast seems surprised to see her there, but uncomfortable enough to say nothing but a greeting, and Lobelia decidedly does not feel smug.

Not even when her cousin opens the door, and his smile slips from his face as if he’d just had a swig of milk that had gone sour. It ought to offend her, surely. It doesn’t, but she will not admit to feeling pleased at getting one over him.

“Cousin”, she greets. “I’ve tried visiting you quite a few times, in the past. Has your hearing gotten worse, that you did not hear the knock?”

“Perhaps, Lobelia, it is simply that you have an insufferably bad timing.” He steps aside to let them in, and she has to admit that at least he looks like he doesn’t mind. A true Baggins at heart then, with impeccable manners. She wants to laugh.

Tea is a silent affair. She spends it mostly staring at Bilbo, and he stares right back. Neither of them actually touch their cups.

Hamfast, who looks back and forth between the two, clears his throat. “Well, I just remembered I’ve got a thing to do.” He says, and it’s directed at Bilbo. “I’ll just come back tomorrow, shall I?”

And since it’s Bilbo who looks away first, she doesn’t feel like she’s conceding loss when she chances a glance at the gardener. There’s an apology written on his features, and it almost makes her smile. Bilbo shakes his head at him, and sees him to the door.

“So.” She says, when he returns to the table. “You haven’t died.”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow, which, she suspects, is his way of rolling his eyes. “I have not. Sorry to disappoint you, Lobelia.”

She doesn’t take the bait. “Well, you can hardly fault us for thinking it. You don’t write. Not so much as a word of your whereabouts. Not even a goodbye. One would assume something quite tragic happened to you.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he calmly reaches for his cup, turning it so he’s grasping the handle in his left hand. “One might argue I don’t have to have died for it to be a tragedy.” He takes a sip. “Though I suppose it depends on who you’re asking.”

“So you would call your return to Bag End a tragedy instead?”

“Would you?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

“That is not what I’m saying.” She looks down at her tea, watching the light from the window reflect in the burgundy coloured liquid. An injustice, that’s what his return was. But calling it a tragedy was bit excessive, even by her standards. What is she doing, anyway? Did she not come here to tell her cousin exactly how badly mannered he’d behaved other the past weeks?

There is silence. Lobelia lets her eyes roam around the room for a bit. It’s… not messy, exactly, but it looks a little like Bilbo had tried to redecorate, and at one point had decided to leave well enough alone. There is a small chest shoved halfway under dresser in the hall, papers are scattered on Bilbo’s table, and although she might be wrong, as she’s never seen one before, a sword is resting against the wall in the corner.

“So, who was he?”

“Who?”

“You know who. You’ve been asked before.”

“And I’ve given you my answer. He was my friend.”

“I have never heard you speak of this Master Oakenshield. No one here has.” Bilbo opens his mouth and shuts it again. So Lobelia continues. “So you mean to tell me that everything you’ve claimed to have done, you did for someone you had met not long before you left? And you call him your friend?” Bilbo glowers, his fists are clenched together in front of him, but he does not answer. Lobelia shakes her head, and continues her inspection of the room. The windows, she notices belatedly, could use a cleaning, and the sill is layered with dust. In one of the open ones, Bilbo had bound together several chestnut twigs and hung them there. Several glass shards and metal scraps were hanging from it, and they made a soft clinking noise when the wind moved them together.

Bilbo notices her watching. “It gets awfully quiet here.” He grits out.

“Does it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“No,” he tells her, lips pressed together. “You wouldn’t.”

A few days later, she sits outside her smial, enjoying the warm evening air while she enjoys a glass of wine. It’s a quiet night. Usually, there is the sound of some hobbit enjoying a drink with their friends, but there is rarely anyone outside at all. She enjoys it.

The sun has long gone down, and the stars shine brilliantly in the sky, though there is very little light as it is a moonless night.

It’s why she almost doesn’t see him.

Had she looked the other way, or been lost in thought, she would not have seen Bilbo Baggins, walking along the field of grass like he’s been doing so every night.

She sighs. Contemplates leaving him to it for a moment, but she can’t tear her gaze away from the way he walks down the path, hand trailing the fence like he’s completely lost in thought.

It’s none of her business, truly. But people will _talk_.

With a shake of her head, she sets her glass down. Telling herself it’s because she doesn’t want Bilbo acting strangely so close to her home, she opens the front door just a bit, to call for Otho: “I’ll just be a moment.”

Then she straightens her clothes and makes her way down the path.

“Bilbo,” she calls, when she’s close enough. “What are you doing?”

He starts, visibly, before turning on his heel with impressive speed, one hand clutching something in his pocket, before he recognises her and relaxes.

“Lobelia.” He greets. “Fine evening tonight, isn’t it?”

“Getting late is what it is. What are you still doing out here?”

“Nothing.” He chuckles. “Well, nothing much. I told you, it’s too quiet at home. I’ve been taking walks when I can’t stand the silence.”

“It’s not particularly loud out here, either.” She politely refrains from rolling her eyes.

“It’s not.” Bilbo agrees. “Though there’s enough noise when you know what to listen for.” She understands the words for what they are: a challenge. So she says nothing and waits for… for _something_ to hear. There’s nothing. At least, nothing prominent.

She frowns. “Well, you should get home. It’s late.”

“’People will talk,’ you mean?” Bilbo laughs. “The nickname – ‘ _Mad Baggins_ ’, was it? – was very rude. Though rather fitting, I suppose.” Pushing away from the fence, he starts walking up the path.

He hasn’t wished her goodnight, so Lobelia doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. In the end, she follows.

Even as she steps into Bag End after him, Bilbo doesn’t say comment on it. He heads for the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

A few minutes later, they’re stirring in their cups without talking. Lobelia notices that the seat at the head of the table, where Bilbo always used to sit, has stayed vacated ever since he got back. Instead, he sits to its left.

“You haven’t asked.” He tells her, at some point.

Lobelia doesn’t have to ask about what. “I’ve heard some of it.” She tells him. “You said it yourself: the people talk. And besides, the children love to tell a good story.”

“That they do. So what did they tell you?”

“I’m sure you know that better than I do.”

Bilbo huffs. “Humour me, then.”

Lobelia can’t stop herself from rolling her eyes this time, impolite as the gesture is. “You left in the company of dwarves. They say the wizard was with you. The one who used to prepare the fireworks for our parties.”

“Gandalf, yes.”

“Yes, him. They say you faced various beasts and met elves. That you went east to a place called The Lonely Mountain.”

Bilbo is nodding while she talks. “And did they tell you why?”

“In all honesty, cousin, I do not care much for stories, and so I didn’t stay long enough to listen.”

“Ah.” Bilbo gives a noncommittal shrug.

They are silent for a few moments, and it’s only because Lobelia thinks it uncomfortable that she allows, “They mentioned a dragon. That the dwarves wanted their mountain back, and there was a dragon who occupied it.”

Bilbo laughs out loud. “’Occupied’…! Yes, I suppose that is an apt enough description.” He empties his cup and sets it back down. “Smaug.”

Lobelia looks up, bemused. “The dragon’s name. It was Smaug. Though he is dead now.”

“So the mountain belongs to the dwarves again?” She didn’t mean to ask – she doesn’t wish to indulge Bilbo’s phantasies – but at the question Bilbo sobers, traces of mirth suddenly gone from his face. He looks down, traces the rim of the cup with his finger before standing up.

“Yes, yes, I suppose it does.”

He takes his cup into the kitchen – for a moment she thinks his hands are shaking – but then Lobelia is left to stare at his retreating back in confusion.

She fiddles around with the spoon for a moment, before realising that Bilbo isn’t present. With an indecorous shrug, she stuffs it into her sleeve, a moment before Bilbo returns.

She empties her cup. “Well then, Bilbo. It is getting rather late.”

“Yes, I do suppose it is.”

She gets up, and he walks her to the door. “Have a goodnight, then. And give my best to Otho.”

“He’ll be pleased, I’m sure.” She turns to leave. “Goodnight, Bilbo.”

She’s half a step out the door, before he catches her elbow and lightly tugs at her arm. The spoon falls down into his waiting hand, and Bilbo grins.

“You can’t steal from a burglar,” he says, cheerfully, like he is enjoying a joke that she isn’t in on, and spins the spoon in the air before catching it again. “You know they’re not all silver, right? I’ve been reliably informed. Dwarves seem to know these things.”

“I wasn’t–!” She starts indignantly, but Bilbo only grins wider.

“Goodnight, Lobelia.” He says, and shuts the door in her face.

* * *

 

In the following months, Lobelia finds herself seeing Bilbo on various occasions.

More often than not, they meet at the market. On some days, Bilbo smiles at her – sometimes it’s small and maybe even genuine; sometimes it looks as forced as the nods of acknowledgement she gives him in return. On other days, Bilbo looks distant and aloof, and like he wants nothing more than to disappear into his hole and stay there.

Every now and then, Lobelia finds herself visiting him, though she could not always say why.

She used to justify her behaviour, if only to herself, but she’s stopped now. There is no point: to others, she’s visiting a relative, and she dares not explain her reasoning to herself, so she doesn’t analyse it too closely.

It’s on one of those days – Lobelia has invited herself over for tea – that Hamfast Gamgee stops by.

He’s delivering an invitation to his wife’s birthday party, and Lobelia wonders idly if there’ll be one for Otho and her as well.

There better be, she thinks, though the Gaffer will probably not bother to deliver it in person. Bilbo thanks him, offering him tea and scones, but Hamfast eyes her, and tells Bilbo he has more work to do. Something about helping Esmeralda Took with her gardening, apparently. Lobelia sips her tea and watches as Bilbo sees him to the door, before reading through the invitation.

And that’s when it clicks. It has taken her a long while to put her finger on what exactly is so alien about Bilbo now that he is back. But right then, as she sees him regarding the invitation as if the words are gibberish, and he’s not sure what to make of them – that’s when she realises:

The problem isn’t that he’s behaving exceptionally strangely, but rather that, between the laughter and quiet, the rules and the restrictions, he no longer has a place.

It’s as if someone handed him all these pieces of his old life, and he’s not sure what to do with them anymore.

“Will you go?” she asks.

Bilbo turns to her, eyebrow raised, as if he’d forgotten she was there, before taking his usual seat.

“Of course I’ll go. I like the Gamgees.”

But even though he says it, he looks as if he could think of nothing he’d like to do less.

* * *

 

Bell Gamgee’s birthday takes place in late summer, as some of the best birthday parties have done in the past.

There are no fireworks, but it is a beautiful day, and there are candles everywhere. It makes for a wonderful atmosphere.

Lobelia converses with Sariadoc Brandybuck a little, but she notices his attention stray when he spots Esmeralda Took. It’s somewhat impolite, but Lobelia is in a good mood today, so she says her goodbyes and leaves him to talk to her, before returning to Otho’s side.

It’s a good while before she spots Bilbo, standing a few feet away from the crowd, talking to Primula and Drogo.

He looks tired, she notes absently, like he hasn’t had a good night’s rest in a while. For a moment, she wonders what he might have gotten as a present, and then berates herself for it. (She herself got a set of needles for her embroidery, and new thread. She likes it well enough as a gift.)

When she sees Otho notice Bilbo as well – he scowls in his direction – she takes him by the arm and pulls him towards the buffet.

She doesn’t see Bilbo again until a few hours later, when most people have already left. He’s sitting in the grass by himself, staring up at the sky, and there is an empty beer mug in his hand.

“Shall we go home?” Otho asks, and Lobelia turns towards him.

She should. She wants to. There is no reason not to leave right now.

“You go on ahead. I just want to talk to someone first.”

He nods, presses a quick kiss to her cheek, and leaves.

Lobelia makes her way towards Bilbo, and stops in front of him, waiting until he looks at her. It takes a while, but then his eyes meet hers, and he carelessly drops the glass on the floor next to his feet.

“Hello.” he greets, quietly.

“Bilbo.” She replies, and frowns a little when he doesn’t say anything else. “Are you alright?” she asks, because it is the only thing she can think of.

“I used to like parties,” he tells her. “I used to be good at them. But now most of these people are strangers to me, and I’m a stranger to them, and I don’t know if I don’t like that, or if I just think I shouldn’t like it.”

Lobelia isn’t sure she knows what he’s saying. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

Bilbo gives a humourless laugh. “Maybe.” He says, before standing up and straightens his clothes. “I’ll go home now. Goodnight, Lobelia.”

She watches as he makes his way up the hill, and then curses herself inwardly as she follows him with quick steps. They don’t talk until they’re inside.

“You know the worst part of it all?”

“Hm?”

“Out of everything.” Bilbo says, as he sits down and motions to the seats in what she supposes is an invitation to do the same. “Out of all the things I’ve seen. Do you know what the worst part was?”

Lobelia takes off her jacket, and follows Bilbo. She shakes her head, because it is the only thing to do, but she isn’t even sure he sees it.

“That door,” he continues anyway, pointing in the direction of the front door. “That green door, freshly painted before I left, thrown open and inviting, and seeing empty hallways and hearing nothing but the quiet ticking of father’s clock. That was the worst part of it all.”

Lobelia frowns, but doesn’t answer. There’s nothing she knows to say to that.

“By any right, it shouldn’t have been,” he continues, with a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “I mean. I’ve seen more than any Hobbit of the Shire – any Hobbit at all, I suppose – and coming home is nothing compared to trolls and orcs, or giant spiders. To almost being incinerated by dragon fire. One would think that, after fire and war and death, coming home would be a relief,” Bilbo says. “And they’d be wrong.”

“Why is that?” Lobelia finds herself asking, and then berates herself for it, because she really shouldn’t indulge him. This is nonsense. Whatever happened while he was gone, there is no way Bilbo has faced a dragon and lived to tell the tale.

A dragon!

But Bilbo does not seem to notice.

“After sleeping on rocks for months, riding ponies, meeting the strangest people, and travelling across the land in the company of dwarves, Bag End felt surprisingly empty.” He tells her. “I still miss their constant chatter and singing, for all that I used to complain about it.”

“Why didn’t you let me have it, then?” The words come out before she can stop herself. It’s not proper, asking directly like that. Any other hobbit would have surely frowned at her. But, she supposes, they’re well past propriety at this point.

And Bilbo- he gives a weary sigh; so deep and shaken that something clenches in her chest, and for a moment she sees him fiddling with something in his hand – something that looks a bit like an acorn, before it disappears in his pocket again, so quickly that she has to wonder if it had been there at all.

“I made a promise,” he says, so quietly he might as well have whispered. She waits, but he does not elaborate.

Instead, he gets up, and straightens his clothes. “Would you care for some tea, Lobelia? There’s always time for tea.”

She agrees, because it is expected, and she won’t pry. Wants to, but won’t. Bilbo nods – at her or at himself, she doesn’t know – and moves into the kitchen. A good while she sits there, and when the kettle begins to whistle, and Bilbo doesn’t return, she follows.

He’s bent over the counter, her cousin; his face buried in his hands, and his shoulders are shaking treacherously. Lobelia takes a step forward. Opens her mouth. But she doesn’t say anything. She wonders, then, just for a moment, what happened to him. Bilbo is far sadder than any self-respecting hobbit his age as a right to be. But she oughtn’t – won’t – indulge him.

So she gathers her coat and leaves. It is too late for tea, she tells herself.

When she gets home, she pauses in front of the door. Her hand is on the doorknob, and she breathes in. There is laughter. She can hear the sound of everyone who’s still at Bell Gamgee’s party.

Frowning, Lobelia goes inside.

* * *

 

She doesn’t visit Bilbo in the week that follows, and when she does make his way up to Bag End, no one opens the door.

She waits a moment. Knocks again.

Still, there is no answer, so she returns home.

The day after that, she meets Primula in the market, who tells her that Bilbo has not been feeling well.

Apparently, she’d visited him that week, and found him passed out in the sitting room.

“I would visit him again tonight, but the Thain has sent word that he wants to come for a visit…” she trails off.

They say their goodbyes, and Lobelia goes home. After unpacking her shopping, she doesn’t know what to do with herself – and, feeling too restless to work on her embroidery, she starts dinner a little early. She’s made stew, and entirely too much of it, and, when she looks out her window and up the hill, she makes a quick decision.

Grabbing a small porcelain pot, she fills it with some of the stew. Then she grabs her coat and makes her way to Bilbo’s.

He opens the door, looking tired and feverish, and instead of greeting her, he steps aside wordlessly to let her in, before returning to his room.

She doesn’t know what it means that he leaves her alone in his home. The stew is still hot, so she pours some of it into a bowl, cuts two slices of bread and knocks on Bilbo’s door before entering.

“I made too much,” she says, by way of explanation.

“Thank you,” Bilbo croaks. He takes the bowl and eats a spoonful, before making a face at what she thinks is the taste. Lobelia glares at him.

“I will have you know that Otho has praised my cooking on many occasions.”

Bilbo side-eyes her. “I don’t doubt it,” he says. “My cousin cherishes you very much.”

“What!” She exclaims, and glares harder.

Bilbo stares right back for a moment, before the corners of his mouth flick upwards, and he makes a sound that is half cough and half laugh.

He eats his soup in silence, and she, at a loss what to do, slowly walks around the room, hand trailing along the bookcase until her eyes reach his writing desk, where a leather-bound book lies, Writing quill right next to it. She looks at Bilbo in question, and finds that he is watching her. “You write?” she asks.

“I do,” Bilbo says. Though he does not elaborate. And Lobelia, still pretending that she appears uninterested if she doesn’t inquire after it, doesn’t ask.

“I, uh. I have a book on different patterns used for embroidery,” he begins. “It was my mothers. I have neither the skill nor patience for it, but if you’re interested… Just, you know. As a way of thanks.”

Lobelia considers this. “Where is it?”

“Top row, on the right. You’ll need the stool to reach it.”

She pulls the book out, and sits at the desk, pushing the leather book a bit to the side, careful not to spill the ink next to it.

The book as all kinds of different patterns, and there are small notes at the bottom and sides of the pages, written in someone else’s hand.

They must be Belladonna’s, Lobelia thinks.

She understands why Bilbo would never get rid of the book even if he has no use for it.

She marks several pages by leaving strips of paper between them, and when she returns home later that day, she leaves the book.

* * *

 

After that, and Bilbo is better, Lobelia spends more time at Bag End.

She brings her fancywork, and works on it at the table, Belladonna’s book opened next to her. (She thinks of it as Belladonna’s book now, because it isn’t Bilbo’s, but it could never be hers, either.)

Sometimes, Bilbo sits with her, bent over different papers, scribbling furiously. Sometimes, he’s in his room, and she imagines that he writes in that book of his.

She comes after lunch, and they have their afternoon tea together. Lobelia always leaves to be home in time for dinner. They don’t talk much, but they bicker occasionally, and at some point, she realises that it’s more banter than anything really hostile.

And so, the months go by. When she isn’t focussed on her own work, she watches Bilbo’s.He writes pages after pages; long cathartic paragraphs that get crossed out and rewritten.

At first, she thought that perhaps he writes letters; maybe to the people he met along the way, maybe to the wizard, or to the dwarven king he called his friend. But she notices that the papers he appears to be finished with – the ones that don’t get crumbled and tossed – he takes them to his room – presumably to lay them to rest in that book of his.

He writes – she can hear the quill scratch on the paper even when she isn’t looking. The sound ingrains itself into her mind, so that sometimes, when she believes she can hear it even when she is at home. There are days when she imagines she can hear the ink form letters on the paper with as much as he writes.

It makes her think of laughter and songs, swordfights and blood, and one day, the scratching sound the quill makes becomes a noise so loud it she thinks it could drown out her own thoughts.

And that day, chest tight with a sadness she doesn’t understand, has no name for, she all but throws a cup of tea down in front of Bilbo to make him stop writing while she is there to hear.

Swordfights and blood are no thoughts for a hobbit. Any hobbit.

She takes a walk that evening. The air is cool but not too cold, and the sky is covered by a thick layer of clouds.

It’ll rain tomorrow, she thinks.

She hasn’t gotten very far, when she hears the sound of someone talking in the distance. The words are too far away to make out, but she’s felt tired and sad after her visit today, and she has never noticed how comforting the sound of people is when you’re alone and lonely. Listening more closely, she can hear the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, and the water rushing in the stream. Somewhere nearby, a cricket chirps. There is laughter now, mingled with the voices in the distance, and she thinks that she can hear the hooting of an owl.

‘There’s enough noise when you know what to listen for,’ Bilbo had said. And he had been right.

The thought weighs heavy on her mind, and she thinks that maybe, she understands what he meant when he said Bag End was too quiet.

* * *

 

That’s how they spend their afternoons for the following months.

It’s somewhat nice, Lobelia concedes. She’s alone at home while Otho works, and Bilbo is usually alone anyway. They keep each other company, and when they’re working – whether it be stitching or writing – the silence isn’t uncomfortable anymore.

She wonderes when her visits have become a routine.

Bilbo has started to keep his book downstairs with him, writing in it even when Lobelia is there. She tries to sneak glances when she thinks he isn’t looking, but Bilbo somehow always managed to hold the book at an angle from which she can’t see inside. It’s all rather frustrating.

And then comes a day on which they’re interrupted from their schedule, by one Hamfast Gamgee, who knocks on the door to tell Bilbo about something that has to do with flowers that don’t grow in the Shire, which he apparently got from someone of the tall folk in the Prancing Pony, Bree’s largest pub.

Lobelia tunes them out, and is about to continue with her fancywork – until her eyes fall on the book Bilbo left open on the table.

She shouldn’t.

She really, really shouldn’t.

But no one could really fault her, could they, if Bilbo had left it open? Her fingers reach across the table before she’s made the conscious decision to move, and she turns the book sideways.

She skims over the text, and sneaks a glance at the front door. Bilbo and Hamfast are still talking, so she turns to the front page, reads, and flips through the pages.

It’s the story. Bilbo’s story.

He talks of the places he’s seen, people he’s met. In great detail, he describes the members of Thorin Oakenshield’s company; the easy grin of a dwarf called Bofur; the friendly pranks and jokes of two brothers called Kili and Fili.

He talks of the dwarven king himself.

Lobelia turns back to the latest pages, the ones Bilbo had been writing before he was interrupted, and reads them again.

 

_“There was darkness in Thorin’s eyes. A madness I had not seen before, nor could understand. He demanded the stone like it was all he cared for in that moment. Almost as if the people who’d died in flames in Esgaroth didn’t matter, and neither did the fact that his people – his friends – had barely escaped death, and were hungry and tired. And seeing that expression in my dear friend scared me, more so than the dragon had.”_

 

The book slams shut, and Lobelia has barely enough time to withdraw her hand, and look up.

Bilbo stands beside her, eyes wide and angry, and his mouth is drawn in a thin line. He picks the book up and holds it protectively against his chest. The worst part, in that moment, is perhaps that he says nothing. It is as if he is too angry to even speak.

She does not say “you never said I couldn’t read it” nor does she give any other excuse, even though they run through her mind. She is still too proud to say she is sorry.

So they stare at each other for a while, until Bilbo sighs. He puts the book back on the table – though still within reach – and sits down, resting his head in his elbow. “You could have just asked, you know.”

She could have. Perhaps she should have.Lobelia knows this, so she doesn’t reply.

“I did not lie, and the story is the same. But there are things in here I didn’t tell anyone, nor do I want to.” He still doesn’t look up. “How much did you see?”

And Lobelia understands the question for what it is. She wouldn’t have, had she not read the tale in Bilbo’s own hand, in his own words, but she did, and she does now. He does not ask “how much did you read?” because that is not the question. He is asking her how much of what lies between the lines she understood.

“Some,” she answers, truthfully. “Enough.”

“I was never afraid of him.” He tells her. “I was afraid of what he would do to his friends and to himself. I feared for him.”

“Yes.” She says. Because can understand that. Because there is really nothing else to say. “’Thorin Oakenshield’,” Lobelia speaks, out loud, for the first time, and there is a question in it. Bilbo flinches.

“He was,” he begins, like all those months ago when he’s just come back. “He was very dear to me. He was my friend.”

Lobelia snorts then, unladylike and improper, and finds that she does not care at all. Because Bilbo is lying. To her, and maybe even to himself.

“Bilbo,” she says. “Cousin. We have had this conversation before, though it did not go too well, and I will admit that I may have been a little harsh. So I will ask you again: You have returned from the most reckless journey I’ve ever heard of – no, don’t glower like that, whether you prefer to call it adventurous, the meaning and outcome are the same – and you’ve lost yourself, Bilbo Baggins. The company, this Master Oakenshield – they’ve changed you.” She takes a breath. “I have read how he has acted. And yet you call him your friend?”

“No, he was –“ Bilbo starts, grasping desperately at words, perhaps to find the ones that don’t sound meaningless to his own ears. “He was my friend, but it’s more than that. He, Thorin, he was…” There are tears gathering in his eyes, threatening to spill like the ink he pours on his pages, and she’s so taken aback that she can only think about how right she’d been in calling his writing cathartic, even if she’s been wrong in everything else.

Because Bilbo has been bleeding ink instead of blood and tears all this time. “He was– to me, Thorin was everything.”

That’s when he slams his elbows down on the table, his shoulders shaking with the weight of the admission he’s just made, and he’s pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if that would stop the world from bearing witness to it.

It is in that moment, that it occurs to Lobelia that she is a fool.

Bilbo has always been honest, even if it was to his own disadvantage. She refused to accept his story as the truth, even if it had been just that, and it is only now that she realises the greatness of the weight that he has been carrying. Without any support, because no one believed a word of what he said.

She stares at the book on the table, and finds herself thinking that perhaps all the words he writes are to compensate for the people he’s loved and lost.

Or maybe he is afraid of forgetting.

But, what really makes her foolish – foolish and blind – is that the answer has been there, right in front of her, and she didn’t see it.

_(Who was this Thorin Oakenshild that you pledged your service to?”)_

She’s said it herself: This Bilbo Baggins is not the same that he once was.

And she just insulted the one person he loved more than his home.

She leaves late that night, past dinner time, and Otho is worried when she gets home.

Where she’s been is no secret, and she won’t lie to him, but her husband doesn’t ask. There must be something showing on her face, because when she walks into the sitting room, he pulls her against his chest and just holds her.

There wasn’t anything she could think to say to Bilbo, nothing that would have had any meaning in the face of what he’s been through, and in the end, she had said nothing.

“He cried, tonight,” she tells her husband. “I’ve not seen him cry like that since his parents died. I don’t think... even then, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen him cry like this.”

Otho tightens his hold on her for a moment, before leading her into the sitting room. He sits her down in her favourite chair and pours her a cup of tea. Chamomile.

She takes it gratefully.

“Has he told you why?” He asks her.

She nods. “He’s lost someone. Someone very important.”

“And would that person be the one he left his home for?”

Lobelia looks at him, and once more marvels at how easily Otho sometimes seems to notice things. “Yes. A dwarf, apparently. You remember, when he came home? It’s this Thorin Oakenshield he mentioned. How did you know?”

Otho smiles. “What else could have changed him so, but the loss of a loved one?”

Lobelia reaches out and takes Otho’s hand, turning the palm up, and subconsciously begins tracing the lines. “It’s terrifying. Him being like that. I imagine, if it was me – if I were to lose you...”

Her husband reaches behind her and pulls her close. Kisses her forehead.

“You won’t, love. You won’t.”

* * *

 

She doesn’t see Bilbo as often, after that.

Not because she doesn’t consider going, and not because he doesn’t let her in when she does, but because Lobelia feels like she doesn’t belong in Bag End any more than Bilbo belongs in Hobbiton.

(Which is not at all.)

But when she finds out that she is pregnant, Bilbo is the second one to know.

There is no reason for that. They’re not friends, not exactly. Lobelia really doesn’t have a name for what they are. When she tells him, though, Bilbo seems genuinely happy for her, and invites her and Otho over for tea.

Her husband is still at work when she makes her way to Bag End, and she doesn’t wait for him, because first of all, Otho knows the way, and also because she there is no reason for propriety when it comes to Bilbo, really.

She barely makes past the gate when he opens the door and steps aside to let her in.

Lobelia doesn’t know what she expected really, but standing in his hallway, she realises that she’s been a bit nervous. After everything, she did not know how she was supposed to act. If she was supposed to ask him how he was, if, perhaps, she was not supposed to mention it at all.

But Bilbo smiles at her – not an open and polite smile, but a small one, sad in a way, but more honest than she’s seen in a while – and she feels more at ease.

“Hello, Lobelia.” He greets. “I just put the kettle on. If you go ahead, I’ll bring it into the sitting room.”

She nods, smiles a little, and leaves her parasol near the door before making her way inside.

There’s a soft clinking sound coming from the open window, and when she turns to look, the sunlight reflects on the pieces of glass Bilbo has hung there. It glitters and shimmers against the walls. The room is brightly lit by the midday sun; it smells like fresh air and faint traces of baked bread.

It takes Lobelia a moment to realise that the room is clean – not that it’s been particularly dirty before, but it did look a bit like Bilbo had given up on making it homely. Where there had been trinkets from his travels lying around before, they now seemed to be put away neatly; the windows and sills had been cleaned. She hadn’t realised how used she’d gotten to the slightly dusty smell until it was gone.

Bag End seemed... well, like a home again.

It only occurs to her now that it hadn’t looked like one, before.

She stands at the window and gently taps the glass pieces together enjoying the light move as it reflects.

“I like the sound they make,” Bilbo says as he enters the room, a tray in his hand. “I found that I can’t sleep unless there’s some sort of noise in the house.”

Lobelia hums in response before moving to the table. She sets the cups while Bilbo goes back into the kitchen to retrieve some teacakes.

“So do you think it’s going to be a boy, or a girl?”

Absentmindedly running a hand up and down her belly in a gentle move, she considers this. “It doesn’t matter. Whether it’s going to be a boy or a girl, I want them to grow up strong and smart and independent. I don’t want them to be a fool.”

Bilbo smiles. “That’s an unusual wish, for a Hobbit of the Shire. I would have thought you’d wish them good looks. A healthy appetite and strong feet.”

“Of course I want all of those things for them.” Lobelia levels him with a look. “But what use will all of these wishes be, if my child cannot think for themselves? I want happiness for my child, and I want it to not depend on anyone but themselves.”

Still smiling, he runs a finger along the rim of the cup. “Yes.” He says. “Yes, that makes sense.”

Bilbo has just begun to set the table when Otho joins them.

“Cousin,” Bilbo greets him, and, to Lobelia’s surprise, he gives her husband a hug.

“Good evening,” Otho says, clearly just as surprised as her, but recovering quickly.

He steps past Bilbo and greets her with a kiss on the forehead, covering the hand she has on her stomach with his own.

Dinner is a quiet, but not uncomfortable affair. Bilbo has prepared lots, and a part of her wonders if perhaps it was to make sure that Otho has nothing to complain about. It’s an amusing thought, and she covers the urge to giggle behind a cough. Two heads turn to look at her, her husband slightly alarmed and even Bilbo looks worried, but she waves them off with a dismissive hand gesture and continues her meal.

After dinner, and Bilbo has cleared away the dishes, Otho takes out his pipe.

“Care to join me for a smoke, Bilbo?”

They excuse themselves, and Lobelia leaves them to whatever it is men talk about when they step outside. Instead, she moves to the study, and browses through the books.

Bilbo’s journal lies on the writing desk near the window, and she lets her hand glide over it as she walks by. There’s a loose page hanging out, and, curiosity getting the better of her, she tugs on it lightly.

It turns out to be a painting of Bilbo, and a good one, at that. In the bottom right corner, the artist signed his work: “Ori,” it reads, and Lobelia is sure she recognises that name from Bilbo’s story.

The young dwarf, her mind reminds her. The scribe, who doesn’t talk much but writes all the more for it.

Bilbo looks good in the picture. It’s done in black and white, and he isn’t exactly smiling, but he looks every bit the proud hobbit she knows her cousin can be.

He looks like he’d already lost a bit of weight at the time when this was drawn, but it doesn’t make him look weak or ill; in fact, he looks healthier than ever.

Any way she looks at it, Bilbo looks remarkably content.

She regards the drawing for a moment longer, before sliding it back between the pages.

It doesn’t take that long before she hears their voices coming from the dining hall, and makes her way back to them. They appear to be saying their goodnights, so Lobelia stands beside her husband and thanks him for the meal.

“Give me a moment.” Bilbo says, holding up a hand. He turns and makes for the door. There is the sound of several cupboard doors being opened and shut, before she hears a rustling sound, and then he is back with a small basket in his hand.

He eyes Otho for a moment, before he appears to make up his mind and gives the basket to her.

There are three tins inside, wrapped in bright green cloth, like leaves in the spring.

“One’s a tin of Longbottom Leaf. That’s for you, Otho. I’ll wager you’re not going to have the easiest of times in the next months. No, don’t look like that Lobelia,” he makes a show of rolling his eyes. “The other two are for you. The bigger one has tea in it. It’s a mix of Valerian Root and lemon balm, which are really helpful when you can’t seem to fall asleep. The smaller one is an ointment a friend of mine taught me how to make. It’s good for all kinds of aches, and I’ll wager it would help when your back is hurting – which I’m sure it will, in the future.”

Lobelia hands the basket to Otho, and opens the small tin to smell it. It’s a crisp smell; minty and fresh, and just a little bit cold, inasmuch as a smell can be. She feels like she can breathe just a little easier. It’s a nice smell.

She puts the tin back in the basket, and that’s when she realises that the cloth is not just that, it’s actually a blanket, albeit a small one. “That one’s for your child,” Bilbo says, and there’s a sad kind of smile on his lips. “I hope they grow up to be strong and joyous and _good_.”

Lobelia nods, because she doesn’t know what to say, and Otho steps forward to put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Cousin.” He says. “It means much.”

* * *

 

Over the next months, she sees Bilbo outside an increasing amount of time.

At the market, or in Hamfast’s garden. She hears he visits Primula and Drogo every now and then, and once, he stops by her house to ask her how she’s been doing.

When her child – her _son_ – is born, Lobelia invites him to the celebrations.

She can honestly say it is the happiest day of her life, and she could not be prouder. Lotho, she names him. After his father. Later that evening, in a quiet moment, when they are alone in the kitchen, Lobelia even allows Bilbo to hold him.

He looks so out of place like that, a crying baby on his arm, but after moment, he awkwardly shifts his hold into something more comfortable, and whispers nonsense at him.

And when Lotho stops crying and falls asleep, Bilbo looks at her with such wonder in his eyes that she hasn’t seen on him in years.

So she thinks that maybe, maybe, Hobbiton can be a home for Bilbo after all.

Maybe.

* * *

 

But then, later, Primula and Drogo die.

She doesn’t hear about it for a few hours, which is a worrying amount of time in the Shire, really.

The news shock her, and for a moment, she doesn’t know what to do about it. But when the news begin to sink in, when she realises that those two are not coming back, she picks up Lotho and hurries out the door, not bothering to close it behind her.

Out of breath, she reaches Bilbo’s front door, and knocks.

Nobody opens the door.

She considers, for a moment, what to do, but makes up her mind rather quickly and opens it. It’s not locked.

There are a few used plates in the sink; she notices them when she passes the kitchen, but other than that, it looks like he barely touched his food. Bilbo is in his bedroom, sitting on the bed.

He does not cry; he just stares at nothing in particular and doesn’t answer when she calls. Lobelia wonders how much of the time he actually sleeps. Perhaps he is waiting to fall asleep. To dream.

Or perhaps, he hopes to wake up.

For this all has to seem like a nightmare to him. She catches herself thinking that Bilbo has loved too much. His father, his mother, his cousin and best friends, and the company of 13 dwarves who’ve either not come to visit, or can’t, anymore.

She tries talking to him for a while, but when he refuses to meet her eyes, and doesn’t give her an answer, she has to give up and leave.

A few days later, though, she tries again. “Bilbo?” she asks, tentatively, when she finds him yet again in his bedroom. “Bilbo, did you hear me come in?”

There is no answer.

“Bilbo, it’s me. Lobelia.”

At first, he does not react, but then he turns his head ever so slightly.

“Lobelia.”

“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”

He turns to look at her then, and there’s a storm raging behind his eyes. “How I am? I’m splendid, cousin. Just fine, thank you. Really, perfect. There’s the minor detail that everyone I care about keeps dying, thank you very much, but that’s nothing to worry about really. I’m _good_.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what, pray tell, did you mean? Because truly, that is a rather redundant question if you ask me. Which you’ve never done. Now, I would very much like to be alone, so I would thank you to leave my house.”

She tries not to feel insulted. She does. But Bilbo looks at her with such hostility that she cannot help but feel wounded.

“Fine then, I shall leave you to your misery. I was worried about you, Bilbo, but I can see now that that was clearly a waste of effort.”

“Indeed it was.” He snaps. Had she not turned around then, she has no doubt he would have slammed the door in her face.

She leaves Bag End to the sound of nothing at all, and when she gets home, she paces the hall furiously.

On her arm, Lotho begins to cry.

(She doesn’t visit again, after that.)

* * *

 

Weeks pass, and she doesn’t see much of Bilbo.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has been known to hold grudges; a fact which she’s never denied.

Besides, Hamfast Gamgee still visits him, she knows, so she decidedly isn’t worried about him. Otho tells her that the old Gaffer worries though. Apparently Bilbo doesn’t care too much for his garden anymore.

Something about a single daffodil growing just beneath his window, but when Hamfast had asked if he should cut it down, or maybe plant some lavender in its place, Bilbo had shrugged and told him to let it grow.

Lobelia remembers how Bilbo had loved his garden.

The next day, she sees him at the market again. He doesn’t look good. She does consider going up to him, but ultimately decides against it.

She tells herself that it’s because he owes her an apology, and not because she has no idea what to say to him. She sees Sariadoc Brandybuck talking to him, and, before she turns to leave, catches a glimpse of his eyes. It makes her shudder. Because she may be young, but she is still a woman, and she knows what he hides behind that pleasant smile of his.

* * *

 

Then comes the boy. Frodo.

She’s taking Lotho out to get some air when she sees Paladin Took and Rorymac Brandybuck standing in Bilbo’s garden.

The boy is with them, and so is Bilbo. She hadn’t considered what they would do with Prim’s son, really, so seeing him standing there, just a little boy, she finds herself thinking that they’re both so similar in their grief; too young to have seen the death of loved ones.

As they stare at each other, she thinks, they both look like the world has forgotten about them.

And then Bilbo crouches down and opens his arms, in the next moment, they’re both clutching at each other, crying, and Lobelia feels like she is intruding on something so private that she turns away.

* * *

 

She hears that Bilbo is adopting the boy from Otho, and fiercely denies the flash of hurt she feels that Bilbo hasn’t told her himself.

Frodo Baggins. She tries saying the name out loud.

The boy will be the next heir to Bag-End, she supposes. She doesn’t like him.

And if, on her way back from the market, she happens to take the long way by Bagshot Row again, it is merely because the weather is nice enough to for a walk, and not because she’s grown used to going that way.

And if she happens to see them, Bilbo and the boy, sitting on the bench in front of the house, clutching their bellies and shoulders shaking with laughter, and not something else – well.

She still doesn’t like him.

“Not one bit,” she tells Lotho, and makes her way home.

* * *

 

(He’s got Frodo to look after, and he is better now. It does not change, however, that Bilbo Baggins does not belong here anymore. She knows it. He knows it. Deep down, all of Hobbiton knows it.

He used to be rooted here, lived his life with an ease that Lobelia was, in all honesty, always a little envious of. This is not ease, and one day he will leave. He loves the boy fiercely – Lobelia cannot deny that, no matter how much she may loathe him for becoming the heir to Bag End – but even Frodo will not be enough to keep him here.

This Bilbo belongs to mountains and the vast sky. His roots have been cut; his ties to the Shire severed, by dwarves and dragons, adventures – she shudders at the thought – and the love for a king who could not find it in him to return it. At least, not in the way it mattered.

It would all make for a beautiful tale, she thinks, if it wasn’t so tragic.)

 

 _I have no will to weep or sing,_  
_No least desire to pray or curse;_  
_The loss of love is a terrible thing;_  
_They lie who say that death is worse._

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from "Funeral Blues" by W.H. Auden; the lines in the beginning and end are taken from the poem "The Loss of Love" by Countee Cullen.


End file.
